


pink icing

by hubblestars



Category: The Worst Witch, The Worst Witch (TV 2017), The Worst Witch - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Bakery, F/F, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Food, Meet-Cute, Short & Sweet
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-07
Updated: 2019-02-07
Packaged: 2019-10-24 00:56:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,820
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17694509
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hubblestars/pseuds/hubblestars
Summary: Pippa works at a bakery.





	pink icing

**Author's Note:**

> *uses sick day as an excuse to write fanfic because I miss hicsqueak*

The sun falls in warm rays of light through the bakery window; sunshine glitters on the glass and on the stray strands of Pippa Pentangle’s blonde ponytail, casting the whole bakery in a soft glow. Pippa, cheerful in the summer afternoon, hums to herself as she hovers behind the counter. She tucks a loose bit of hair behind her ear, and glances up every now and then out of the windows of the bakery and into the small street.

“Looking for someone?” Her mother asks from beside her, airily, and Pippa flushes. The older Pentangle is making cupcakes, her eyebrows narrowed and her lips firmly pressed together as she concentrates. Despite the streak of pink icing on her cheek, she’s still utterly intimidating.

“Not at all, mother.” Pippa lies. A daydream flickers behind her eyes - dark hair, a high chin, nimble fingers. But she pushes it down until the bakery swims back into focus. “We’re quiet today.”

“And that’s not an excuse-”

“To slack.” Pippa sighs. “Yes, yes I know.”

It’s been 3 years since her mother invited her to work at her bakery; 3 years since Pippa had dusted off an old apron and scrubbed the pink lipstick from her mouth. She continued studying at University, of course, but on evenings and weekends she slipped through the doors of the bakery and served customers, or found herself coated up to her elbows in flour and butter. Though her degree pressed heavy on her mind - and her mother’s curt voice sounded constantly in her ears - she found solace in the bakery.

Peace, thinks Pippa, swaying along to the tune that plays at the edge of the bakery from the worn out radio. There’s sunshine and music, here. Pippa can finally  _ breathe.  _

Well. She could breathe until the doors of the bakery tinkled open slowly and a tall, dark figure appeared in the glow of the sunshine. The same person she’d been waiting for all day.  _ Hecate Hardbroom.  _ When Pippa sees those glittering eyes, shadows behind her irises; when Pippa hears Hecate clip closer on high heels; when Pippa watches Hecate glance towards the counter hopefully, her eyebrows slightly raised… her breath is stolen.

*

Pippa had first met Hecate Hardbroom 2 years before.

She was late for her shift at the bakery. Rushing through crowds of people, Pippa had spilled her morning coffee all down her coat and had been grumbling to herself when she’d quite literally collided with someone. When Pippa had looked up to say sorry, flushed red with embarrassment, she’d almost tripped over her own feet.

The woman in front of her had been brushing off her blouse with a scowl, her hair falling in  waves around her face. Pippa had looked up into dark, unfamiliar eyes and felt herself falter.. This woman’s clothes were tight and her eyebags were a faded purple but she was holding onto a bright pink  _ Pentangle Pastries  _ bag for dear life, like it held the crown jewels, and Pippa had to bite her lip so that she wouldn’t burst out into a tinkling laugh.

“I work there.” Pippa blurted, motioning to the bag.

The woman rolled her eyes and pushed past her, her heels making a  _ clip clop  _ on the pavement, and Pippa had watched her with a small smile as she disappeared around the corner. 

*

2 years and a few hundred hours worth of online stalking later, Pippa hasn’t forgotten Hecate Hardbroom. It’s hard to forget someone who comes to your bakery every day, after all.

Hecate studies Biology and she brings her laptop to the bakery to study while she eats a sprinkled donut. She comes either early in the morning or late afternoon and always pays with the perfect amount of change. She hardly ever wears her hair loose and prefers her bun to be tight and firm, although on some rare days Pippa savours the sight of her soft, loose curls. But most importantly, sometimes Hecate will glance up from her table at the bakery (the one tucked right into the corner), and she’ll flush and look away when Pippa meets her gaze.

Now, Hecate is leaning across the counter, and she is… glowing. Pippa freezes when she looks at her properly. Her cardigan, Pippa thinks, is like the night sky, because specks of glitter fade and ebb from the dark wool when she moves. Hecate is so much softer, today; loose, curly hair, no makeup, reading glasses perched on the end of her nose...

“Good afternoon, Hecate,” Pippa says cheerfully, though she can’t help but notice the quiver in her voice.  _ Get it together, Pentangle.  _ “The usual?”

“Please.” Hecate murmurs. She sounds weary. Pippa wonders why she always looks so tense; the lines of her shoulders look hard and uncomfortable. She often imagined giving Hecate a massage, making her a cup of tea, kissing her forehead. In the years since they’d met Pippa had recognised Hecate as more lonely than cruel.

Hecate reaches for her purse, and Pippa reaches forward. Touches Hecate for the first time. Places the tips of her fingers on the backs of her left hand. Hecate jumps away and looks at her with wide eyes and Pippa almost sighs outloud, sad and exasperated and tender all at once.

“It’s on me.” Pippa smiles. But Hecate’s eyebrows narrow and Pippa knows she’s pushed too far too soon.

“I’m far from a charity case.” Hecate spits.

*

Pippa had come out at fifteen.

She’d worn her best pink dress - the feeling of it swishing around her knees had been infinitely comforting, like a wearable good luck charm. She’d sat her mother down on their sofa, smiled with bright eyes, thought naively that she would feel free and happy and her mother would pull her to in an awkward hug that said  _ I love you as you are.  _

None of this happened. Her mother had  _ laughed.  _

“You, a dyke?” She’d said, dryly, with her eyes narrowed. “Yeah, and I’m Oprah. Come on, now, Pippa. This is ridiculous.”

Those same eyes turn to her now - that stern mouth presses shut ever tighter. She puts down her cupcakes. 

“What did you do that for?” She asks. Pippa glances away from her mother, still embarrassed by her encounter with Hecate. “Act professionally, Pippa.”

But Hecate is looking from her table in the corner. It’s enough to fade the bitterness away. It’s enough to bring back the sunshine.

*

Pippa is tired.

She hasn’t seen Hecate in two weeks and her mother had slapped her the night before for forgetting to lock up the bakery; she’d failed one of her catering modules because she hasn’t been sleeping well; the world seems dark and unwelcoming as summer fades to a duller autumn. And to top it all off, it’s raining at 5am on Sunday morning.

With dark eyes and weak legs she shuffles her way to the bakery. Her mother has left her in charge for the day while she starts another catering course and Pippa can hardly find the energy even to walk there. She knows she won’t see Hecate again, not since the last time. She knows she’ll inevitably fuck something up today.

Pippa clutches her coat tighter around her and is about to choke on a sob because a clap of thunder sounds in the distance. But then she turns the corner and beside the doors to the bakery, calm and unruffled, is Hecate Hardbroom. Tall and smiling with her hands in her pockets.

“Good morning, Pippa.” She says, quietly, and Pippa almost smiles.

“Hecate.” Pippa breathes, in a surprised greeting. Her hands tremble as she tries to open the doors, but the keys won’t quite fit in the lock, and Pippa bites her lip. Her tears are mingling with the rain. Hecate takes the jangling keys from her with soft fingers, her hands warm over Pippa’s, a contrast to the freezing rain slipping down the back of her coat.

“Here we are.” Hecate says, pushing open the bakery doors with a flourish. As if they do it all the time. As if this was just any other Sunday morning. Pippa’s heart aches as she looks out into the darkened bakery. A memory comes to her:

Hecate had been coming to Pentangle’s Pastries for a few months when Pippa had spotted her in the University library. She’d ducked behind a bookshelf, her notebook clutched tightly to her chest, her heart thrumming in her throat. Hecate had been alone, as usual, and if Pippa looked closely she could see tear tracks on her cheeks. Eyebags. And the guarded sadness in her face was so familiar that for a moment Pippa felt she was looking at herself

Now, Pippa makes donuts while Hecate leans on the counter to watch. Pippa has rolled up her sleeves, pulled her hair into a loose and messy bun, and she feels self conscious while Hecate watches her. She keeps tucking stray strands of hair behind her ear. They talk as she works. Cautiously, like they’re only skirting on the edges of what they really want to say.

“I wanted to apologise.” Hecate murmurs, the words sounding choked in her throat, and Pippa almost drops the donut she’d been icing. “For the way I acted. I… misinterpreted your kind offer.”

“Don’t be silly!” Pippa grins. “I just want to be friends, Hecate.”

“I’m not… experienced. In that area.” Hecate is struggling to speak, “People don’t… well they aren’t inclined to like me very much.”

Pippa thinks of Hecate, alone wherever she goes. She wonders what her story is. Who hurt her, why people avoid her, why they don’t look beneath the prickly surface to see the gem underneath.

“That’s alright. We all have to start somewhere.” 

But Hecate isn’t listening, Pippa thinks. She’s looking at Pippa strangely, her eyebrows knitted together - and then she reaches forward and gently swipes her thumb across Pippa’s cheek. When she pulls away, there’s a spot of pink on the end of her thumb, and Hecate - ridiculous, glorious Hecate - sucks the pink icing from her skin.

“All better.” Hecate says, mischievous but wary, her cheeks tinged slightly pink.

And Pippa can’t resist anymore. Years of pining build up like logs on a fire and Hecate is standing in her bakery at 5am looking like  _ that  _ and it’s all awfully unfair. One moment they’re both staring at each other like rabbits in the headlights, and the next Pippa has her hands caught in Hecate’s hair (infinitely softer than she imagined) and she’s pressed her lips to Hecate’s, gentle enough that it hardly feels like a kiss. But Hecate tastes like icing. Sweet and soft.

“You’ll have to pay for that icing.” Pippa warns, when Hecate stumbles backwards. And then they’re laughing together like they’ve known each other their whole lives.

Maybe they  _ have  _ known each other their whole lives, Pippa thinks, and maybe they’ll continue to keep knowing. And learning. And making donuts.  
  



End file.
